


As Time Goes By

by Laura Shapiro (laurashapiro)



Series: Leaves of Grass [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale wanks, Blow Jobs, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, No Refractory Period, Oral Sex, Other, Pining, Praise Kink, Rimming, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sexual Fantasy, The Bastille, The Globe, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, angels have no refractory period, another one with wanking in, aziraphale pines, ineffable stamina, let Aziraphale pine 2019, let Aziraphale wank 2019, the significantly less mortifying joy of being known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 20:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/pseuds/Laura%20Shapiro
Summary: Crowley reels out of the Globe like a drunk. Every time he sees Aziraphale it's the same: Crowley loves him, Crowley wants him, Crowley goes off for a miserable wank afterward. Futile, infuriating. He doesn't feel miserable today. The lust is terrifying in its enormity, yes, but there's something else. Aziraphale looked at him like he was willing to be pleased. LikeCrowley had pleased him.---Aziraphale does not want to stamp out demonic thoughts tonight. He felt wicked from the moment he alighted in Paris, dressed in his finest, and understood the gravity of his erreur. Crowley turned up to rescue him like a hero in a fairy story, and Aziraphale simply could not keep his wickedness to himself. He flirted with Crowley, shamelessly. And it felt good. By which he meant, deliciously wrong.





	As Time Goes By

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the [Leaves of Grass](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1406341) universe. This works as a stand-alone story but you may appreciate it more if you first read [A Kiss is Just a Kiss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424884) and [Working Hard in Damp Places](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657057). Aziraphale and Crowley have been on a voyage of discovery, both individually and together, for a while now and we seem to have arrived in a new place. Thank you to everyone who has been taking this journey with them, and with me!

# 1601, London

Crowley reels out of the Globe like a drunk. He is so trashed on Aziraphale’s smile that he crashes into a pamphleteer, a fruit-seller, and a housewife with a laundry basket on his way toward the river. Those pleading eyes. “I’ll do that one, my treat,” Crowley said, because how could he not, when Aziraphale looked at him like that. And then Aziraphale smiled. Surprise, delight, _ gratitude and approval _ and Crowley is in no way prepared for it, in no way prepared for the wave of love that crashes over him. He has to flee. 

Something is changing, infuriatingly slowly. Glacially. But it’s changing. 

Aziraphale has been softening, ever since The Arrangement. Crowley still has to convince him, every time, as though there _ were _ no Arrangement. As though every time is the first time. But Aziraphale always agrees, in the end. And lately seems almost glad to agree -- or maybe it’s more accurate to say, glad to have been talked into it. Crowley isn’t using his literal wiles. He could. He could make Aziraphale want to do his temptations for him, make Aziraphale want to ride a stupid horse up to Edinburgh. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t. 

Okay, he’s just starting to know why he doesn’t, and he has the distinct sense that it is conduct unbefitting a demon. It’s not just the fact that he’s fond of the angel -- he knows that. This is something else, something he can’t look at too clearly. But it has a lot to do with the way Aziraphale looks so pleased to see Crowley when he pops up. The way Aziraphale is concerned for Crowley, not just himself, if they’re found out. The way Aziraphale asks for things without asking, with those eyes, with those faces he makes. When Crowley agreed to miracle the sodding play, what a smile Aziraphale gave him, like a gift! Crowley knows he’ll hoard that smile for decades, take it out of hiding from time to time and cherish it. Fuck. 

Arousal surges through him and he can feel his stomach flipping, heart hammering. Aziraphale's delicate hand, lifting a grape to his rosebud lips. Aziraphale’s throat, soft and white and begging for love bites. Aziraphale's well-turned calves, his shapely thighs over Crowley's shoulders as he thrusts into him. Fuck, he wants him _ now _ . His prick screaming for it, already wetting his breeches. 

Every time he sees Aziraphale it's the same: Crowley loves him, Crowley wants him, Crowley goes off for a miserable wank afterward. Futile, infuriating. He doesn't feel miserable today. The lust is terrifying in its enormity, yes, but there's something else. Aziraphale looked at him like he was willing to be pleased. Like _ Crowley had pleased him _. Crowley flames up all over and ducks down an alley, still a few streets away from his lodging, dodging a couple of hogs and nearly upsetting a cartload of fish on its way to market. The alley is empty, but he thinks away any prospective audience just the same, an infernal shield between the human world and the vision in his mind as he pulls out his prick with a gasp. 

The alley is filthy, like all alleys. Broken crockery, a bit of spoiled pie, dog’s mess, muck everywhere. Stench of urine. Crowley’s sense of smell is acute -- he’s a snake, after all. But his nose and his lungs are still full of the angel, a scent he has permanently internalized, stowed away inside amid a small and growing gallery of insubstantial, stolen things. He can call up that fragrance whenever he needs it. Oh, he needs it. 

Leaning one shoulder against the rough, dirty wall, he shuts his eyes against his vile surroundings and pictures a clean, white room. Aziraphale is spread out beneath him, and Crowley strokes his prick and swallows against the intensity of it. "I want you so much," the angel says in his head, reaching for him, and another flare of heat rolls over him. Crowley imagines kissing Aziraphale, an image he has prized since Eden, hearing and feeling Aziraphale moan into his mouth. Aziraphale’s mouth is soft, tender, pliant and willing. Crowley licks his lips and shivers at the thrill that runs through him, the burn in his prick. Now he's sucking Aziraphale's cock (another old standby) but instead of the usual incoherent gasps, this time Aziraphale is praising him, telling him he's lovely, and Crowley can't take it. He jacks himself hard and fast, pounding into Aziraphale and hearing the angel telling him he's good, he's so good. His hand on his cock is his hand on Aziraphale's cock now, Aziraphale is coming, shouting his name, and Crowley stifles his cries and shoots against the wall. 

He allows himself one last shuddering thought before the images fade, a slow wet kiss as he nestles deep in Aziraphale's body. He tucks himself back into his breeches, sucks his fingers clean. He thinks he has spunk in his beard, miracles it away. 

Something's changing. Aziraphale can say they're not friends all he likes. They're not friends. They're something more. 

* * *

# Paris, 1793

Aziraphale's fingers are sticky. He glances at the ewer and basin in the tiny, immaculate monastery cell, taken in great haste at the last moment when he was unable to secure passage to Calais this afternoon. He puts his fingers in his mouth, savoring the lingering sweetness of Grand Marnier and sugar, the richness of butter. He likes the feel of his fingers on his tongue, too, and the feel of his tongue on his fingers. He shivers as he licks between them, chasing less for crêpe crumbs than for sensation, for memory. 

Crowley touched his hand briefly today, steering him out of the Bastille. The most fleeting contact, but it had lit him up like a torch, and Aziraphale can still feel the heat on his skin. The sensation flares, flickering up his arm, down his chest, into his belly. His cock comes alive. 

As he reclines on the pristine little bed, he considers putting his shoes back on (not his shoes, that vile executioner's shoes, he'll never see his sweet little satin pumps again) and finding a willing young man with whom to spend the evening. With whom to spend. A smile perks his lips. But as he envisions his fingers in someone else's mouth, the idea is suddenly distasteful. He doesn't want someone else. He wants Crowley. 

He has known this for some time, without ever letting himself dwell on it. He has felt the flutter in his breast when Crowley turns up, and dismissed it. Felt the smile crack across his face when Crowley pleases him, and stopped it. Felt the itch in his fingers to play with Crowley’s hair, the ache in his jaw to bite, the tingle in his cock and the pang of emptiness in his belly, to touch, to take, to be taken. And he has denied it all. 

In his dalliances with humans, Aziraphale has always kept his thoughts firmly on them, giving them the gift of angelic attention and himself the interest of transitory pleasures of the flesh. Any demonic thoughts have been firmly stamped out as soon as they appeared. 

Aziraphale does not want to stamp out demonic thoughts tonight. He felt wicked from the moment he alighted in Paris, dressed in his finest, and understood the gravity of his _erreur_. Crowley turned up to rescue him like a hero in a fairy story, and Aziraphale simply could not keep his wickedness to himself. He flirted with Crowley, shamelessly. And it felt good. By which he meant, deliciously wrong. 

Aziraphale's cock swells against his fine linen under the rough breeches. He closes his eyes against the purity of whitewashed walls, the crucifix nailed up across from the bed. He sees himself seated in the filthy prison cell once more, chained in his finery, but this time Crowley stands before him, teasing Aziraphale's lips with the tip of his cock. He sucks his fingers, in his mind sucking Crowley's hard, dripping prick into his mouth, catches Crowley's eyes glinting above his spectacles, the suggestion of a dimple as his lip curls up in the faintest smile. Keeping his fingers in his mouth, Aziraphale reaches for his cock with his other hand. 

Something is changing. Aziraphale has pleasured himself countless times before, but only ever with the sensations of the moment in mind. A devoted sensualist, he savors every exquisite tremor he can wring from himself, but never with any object but the pleasure itself. Now his object is Crowley, and Aziraphale is shaking with lust. 

“You know what you do to me,” Crowley says in his mind, as Aziraphale swirls his tongue around his heavy cock. Crowley shudders, and Aziraphale reaches deeper into his own mouth, taking Crowley into his throat. “Greedy bastard,” Crowley smiles. Aziraphale’s hand works slowly on his own cock, long, gentle strokes with a twist, just the way he likes to begin, slow, teasing. But his heart is galloping, urging him onward in a pace that is not usual, not at all. For once he feels there is no time for languor, no time for the luxurious self-exploration that has been his habit for eras. Crowley bends him over the decrepit bench, besmirching Aziraphale’s beautiful clothes with grime, and plunges his forked, flickering, serpent’s tongue into Aziraphale’s arse. Aziraphale rolls over and teases himself with wet fingers, trying for the delicacy of tongue coupled with the urgency of a demon’s need. He moans and squirms, plunges a finger in, works himself open as Crowley growls into him, licking and slithering. 

Aziraphale’s cock is leaking onto the thin, clean counterpane. He grips himself harder, tugs his foreskin back, feeling himself pressed against the hard wood of the bench as Crowley holds him down, prying his arse apart. Aziraphale thrusts in a second finger, gasps and opens, miracles more slickness and wedges in a third finger, hard, as Crowley’s cock plunges inside him. The burn at the edge of him is welcome, and swiftly overtaken by the almost overwhelming pleasures of friction, fullness. Aziraphale flutters around his hand, imagines Crowley feeling that, feeling him. The intense pressure builds the ache inside him as he struggles and embraces Crowley’s cock. Soon Aziraphale is wide open, gasping. 

Against the inside of his eyelids, over his shoulder, he sees Crowley’s face, his spectacles off. It’s not a sneer there now. It’s not only desire. It’s appreciation, approval. Affection. 

His fist is flying on his cock now, the pads of his fingers pressing rhythmically at his prostate as he soars, unbelieving. It has never felt this good. Never. 

Crowley grips his hips, bites his neck, hammers into him. Aziraphale works his hand as deep as he can for a while, then backs off again for that sweet thrill against his prostate. He sees Crowley angling his hips to give him pleasure. "Angel," Crowley calls to him, "Fuck, _yes_." 

He feels Crowley's cock expand, pulse -- he really can almost feel it -- Crowley spills inside of him, calling his name, and Aziraphale cracks and shatters into a thousand filthy, ecstatic pieces, muffling his cries into the pillow. 

As the tremors recede, Aziraphale continues to work himself fore and aft, slowing but unceasing. He usually has another go. He wants another. But more than that, he is afraid of what he will feel when he stops. 

* * *

# Present day, London

Crowley sprawled in Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale laid kisses along his jaw, holding him as Crowley lazily stroked his own prick. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, a winter afternoon in a string of winter afternoons in Aziraphale’s bed. The room had been uninhabitable when Crowley had first seen it. Gradually Crowley had helped Aziraphale nudge the clutter into a sort of détente; Aziraphale’s flat would never be tidy, but it was coherent, now. Still a bit dusty, but basically clean. Cosy. Dim, grey light filtered in through the sheer curtains. Twilight was falling. 

“Like the view?” Crowley asked. He palmed the tip of himself, enjoyed the just-slightly-too-much shudder, and went back to caressing his shaft. 

“I could watch you for hours, my dear,” Aziraphale said, nuzzling his ear. “Days. As long as I can hold you.” He squeezed Crowley around his middle, then stroked up to pinch his nipple. “Good Lord, you are lovely.” 

Aziraphale was hard against Crowley’s thigh, and Crowley reached his free hand over to take hold of his cock. “You too,” he murmured, turning his head for a kiss. 

Aziraphale drew his tongue over Crowley’s lower lip, then sucked it into his mouth. Crowley matched the movements with his hand, tiny short strokes until Aziraphale squirmed and plunged his tongue into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley gave him a couple of good hard pulls and smiled into his moan. 

“You’re meant to be concentrating on your own pleasure,” Aziraphale tutted, when he’d recovered a bit. 

“This _is_ my pleasure, you idiot,” Crowley said fondly, backing off into the long, slow, twisting stroke that Aziraphale liked to be teased with. Aziraphale squirmed and thrust into his hand and Crowley’s own lust kicked into a higher gear. Aziraphale wanton and greedy always made him warm. He felt pre-come jet down his own prick. 

Aziraphale kissed him again, gasping, then pulled back enough to meet Crowley’s eyes. His hand covered Crowley’s on Crowley’s prick, riding along, feeling it move. “I know it. I feel just the same.” He shivered. “Oh, Crowley, you are so--” 

Crowley captured his mouth again before Aziraphale could praise him. He stroked them both a little faster, looked into his angel’s eyes, smoky now, reflecting the grey of the dim room. Aziraphale told Crowley he was lovely all the time, and he was still learning to bear it. He didn’t tell Aziraphale often enough, though. 

“You. _You’re_ beautiful. D’you know it?” He pressed a tiny kiss to Aziraphale’s upper lip, his lower lip, the tip of his nose. There, there was the smile that still made Crowley legless. “Fucking _radiant_. All of you.” He gripped their cocks more tightly now. “And so hot, my angel. You know what you do to me, you insatiable bastard. Greedy, wicked --” 

“_Fuck,” _Aziraphale panted. “Crowley, I need you. I need you inside me. Please.”

The words cracked through Crowley like electricity. Aziraphale loved this and was only now learning to ask for it. “Of course,” he said, and his voice broke, a little. He thought of the time he’d lost control of himself over the idea of fucking Aziraphale, jacking off furiously in an alley, and then of the fraught pleasure of describing that experience to Aziraphale. Aziraphale had admitted he too had touched himself while thinking of Crowley. He thought of the angel in the Bastille, outraged and outrageous, fluttering and flirting. He’d never seen him so provocative, so openly and obviously _interested_. Crowley had wanted to bend him over right there in the cell. Crowley had an idea Aziraphale might like that now. He released Aziraphale’s cock, his hand sadly empty for a moment. “Turn over.” 

Aziraphale, bless him, blushed. His shameless angel, but apparently over-the-shoulder love was still somehow shocking. “I was -- how did you know? This was just what I wanted.” He arranged some pillows and lay on his belly, presenting his astounding arse to Crowley’s eager hands. 

“I was thinking about you at the Bastille,” Crowley tried to explain, stroking Aziraphale’s curves and nibbling his neck. 

“_I_ was thinking about that!” Aziraphale exclaimed, and then he sighed as Crowley dropped kisses across his shoulders. 

“You said,” Crowley murmured into the space where his wings sprouted, “you wanked over me that day. D’you remember what you imagined?” His hands slowly traced down Aziraphale’s sides and slid over his arse. He didn’t know if Aziraphale would be game for this. It was one thing to get up to all sorts in bed; quite another to share fantasies. But he wanted to know, so he asked. 

“Mmmm...the idea was that you wanted me so much, you had me right there in the cell.” 

Crowley applied his teeth gently to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I would’ve, if you’d asked.” He tightened his hands, squeezing, digging his fingers in a bit. “What else?” 

A pause. Was he trying to remember? Possibly embarrassed? “You stood over me and I sucked your cock. I’d like to do that more often, I think.” 

“No arguments from me,” Crowley said, his prick flaring with sensation as he kissed down Aziraphale’s spine. “And?” 

“You put your tongue in me,” Aziraphale whispered, and then “Ohhh, oh, _Crowley_,” as Crowley held him apart and licked him. Crowley lapped him gently, slowly, and then began to flicker and probe, teasing the rim of him. For a few minutes Aziraphale was inarticulate with moans, writhing and clutching the sheets. “That day was the first time I -- oh god -- I knew how much I wanted you.” 

“I could tell, you know,” Crowley said, slipping in a finger. Aziraphale opened almost instantly, so he added another. “You were a bloody _siren_.” In more ways than one. Crowley had heard the alarm and come running. And then had to manage his own alarm, at the lure of this seductive creature. 

“I was still wearing my lovely silk brocade coat and all,” Aziraphale’s voice was thick. “And you pushed me down on the filthy bench and fucked me.” 

Crowley stopped moving his hand for a second. “So I made you dirty. Is that it?” 

“No, no, my dear,” Aziraphale said, looking over his shoulder to meet Crowley’s eyes. “That’s not it at all. I wanted you so much, I didn’t care if I _got _ dirty. Do you see?” 

Crowley relaxed, crooked his fingers against Aziraphale’s prostate to hear him moan. “You were always the filthy one. It was always there, waiting.” 

“That’s right,” Aziraphale said, pushing his hips back, bearing down against Crowley’s hand. “You don’t have to wait any longer,” he gasped. His lips and cheeks were pink, eyes blazing with love. “I’m yours. Take me.” 

When Aziraphale looked at Crowley like that, every time was like the first time. Crowley’s heart clenched with joy, and he leaned over to moan a kiss into Aziraphale’s sweet hungry mouth before returning to the task at hand. He miracled a little slickness and stroked it onto himself, shuddering. Then he nudged himself against Aziraphale, his hand on the small of his back, feeling the breathing heat of him, the tremble of him, waiting and wanting. 

Crowley savored the moment when Aziraphale’s body opened to meet him, to take him in. “Oh, my love,” Aziraphale murmured, as Crowley slid slowly into the blessed heat and squeeze, and then, “oh, oh, _fuck_,” as Crowley began short shallow thrusts, gently opening him up. Crowley hissed against the tight wet pleasure of it, already awash in stimulation, and Aziraphale gasped in response, pressing his hips back, bearing down. “Yes, oh yes, oh, take me hard, please!” and that was all the urging Crowley needed, surging forward, sinking in to the root. 

They both groaned, and Crowley slid almost all the way out and plunged back in deep, shuddering against the sucking friction. Aziraphale was always verbal during sex, but he had never spoken like this before, urging Crowley to “take” him. It was new. It was amazingly hot. Crowley was rewinding in time to Aziraphale the coquette, Aziraphale in all his ridiculous frills, thrilled at Crowley’s timely rescue. Only now, he really could bend him over. 

As his hips began to work, Crowley draped himself over Aziraphale’s back, giving tender little bites to his broad milky shoulders. Aziraphale tilted his pelvis and shoved against him, begging with his body in a way that made Crowley lose his entire mind. He adjusted his angle to stroke Aziraphale’s prostate, and Aziraphale cried out. 

“Yes! Just like that!” 

Crowley flamed up and went hard, driving into Aziraphale, fingers digging into his soft hips. He felt more than saw Aziraphale working his hand under himself, stroking his cock, and Crowley just couldn’t let him do that. Still fucking him as hard as he could, he reached under Aziraphale’s belly and got his hand around him. “I’ve got you, angel,” he panted. “Let me.” 

“My dear,” Aziraphale gasped, “Oh, my dearest.” Crowley flushed with love and surprise. Aziraphale had never called him that before. Then he worked to keep up as Aziraphale pushed vigorously against him fore and aft for a few raw and delicious moments, his thick cock so hard, wet, and welcome in Crowley’s hand. Then Aziraphale went very still and his body clamped down, and he dropped his head into the pillow and fairly sobbed into it, trembling all over. Crowley knew what he needed and gave him everything he had, pounding into him and savoring the fluttering spasms against his hot prick as he milked Aziraphale’s cock. Aziraphale went on for a while, and Crowley’s heart sang as he watched and felt him writhe. Finally he sank into the pillows, panting. 

Crowley slowed to gentle rocking movements now, eager to come but wanting to stay with Aziraphale in his post-orgasmic haze. He thought about the trust Aziraphale had shown him, opening his body and his heart and, now, his secret thoughts. He was starting to feel worthy of it. “Did you get what you wanted, angel?” 

“Everything,” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh, my dear, thank you for indulging me.” 

Crowley shivered against being thanked, took a deep breath and did his best to lean into the praise. “Don’t I always?” He lived for it, he always had done, and they both knew it. He rolled his hips. 

Aziraphale grunted and fluttered around his cock. “You are quite determined about it,” he agreed. “Now, how may I indulge you?” 

Crowley slid his hands over Aziraphale’s arse, up his back, in a long and hungry caress. “Wanna see your face, for a start.” He withdrew from Aziraphale’s body and watched him turn over. 

Aziraphale’s hair stood out from his face in wild disarray, bright curls soft and tuggable in their mess. His grey-blue eyes were soft and his expression languid. He was flushed and creased from the sheets, all down his face and rosy body. His belly, tilted up on the pillows he had propped, was a nest of damp blond curls, spunk, and his fat cock sweetly curving above his ripe balls, between splayed thighs. 

Crowley’s mouth watered. “Oh, angel.” He swallowed. “You’re fucking _gorgeous_.” He planted his hands either side of Aziraphale’s head and just looked into his face for a moment, breath catching in his throat. “You’ve never called me ‘dearest’ before,” he said quietly. 

“I can’t think why,” Aziraphale said, holding his eyes, smiling the most gentle smile. “It’s not as if there’s ever been anybody dearer to me, nor ever will be.” He kissed Crowley lightly, and Crowley felt his fingers in his hair. “Did you like it?” 

“I liked it,” Crowley admitted, returning his kiss, then burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck. He felt himself opening up to it even further today, this idea of being prized. He thought he might want to hear more about it. He licked Aziraphale’s ear and whispered “Can I suck you?” 

Aziraphale’s smile softened further. “I’d enjoy that very much.” 

Crowley loved to suck Aziraphale’s cock, but the way the angel praised him when he did it was almost too much to take. Maybe he could tolerate that kind of praise today. Maybe he would even -- he shivered -- _like_ it. He kissed Aziraphale lightly, then nuzzled his lips open and swept into his mouth, tasting his tongue. Aziraphale purred. He pulled back and shifted to his snake tongue, flickering at Aziraphale’s open lips, then nipping at them. Aziraphale twined his hands in his hair and pulled him in closer, deepening the kiss and pressing their bodies together. Crowley’s heart expanded at the feel of his angel naked against him, his strong arms around him, the slickness of his spent desire sliding between them. He melted into the embrace, sighed into the kiss, then trailed kisses along Aziraphale’s throat and chest as he moved down, stroking Aziraphale’s lovely soft skin as he went. 

“You feel marvelous,” Aziraphale said, fingers still playing in his hair. 

“Thinking the same thing about you,” Crowley said, nestling between his thighs and running his hungry palms along their sumptuous curves. He reached down to cradle Aziraphale’s balls in his hand and dipped his head to taste, savoring his scent and the tender, pebbled skin. He sucked one of them into his mouth, then the other, lavishing attention with his tongue as Aziraphale sighed and subtly squirmed. Then he moved higher and began licking up the spunk on Aziraphale’s belly. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Aziraphale said, his stomach jumping a bit at the sensation. Crowley pressed harder with his tongue so it wouldn’t tickle. 

“I like it. I love the tassste of you,” Crowley said, digging his tongue around in the angel’s blond curls for more. “Love to wreck you, love to tidy you up.” 

Aziraphale scraped his nails down Crowley’s scalp, sending a tingle down his spine. “I love the way you look after me. The way you’ve always looked after me.” 

Crowley gasped as his stomach flipped, a wave of love and arousal crashing over him from head to foot. He tightened his hands on Aziraphale’s thighs and just breathed into it for a moment, breathed the words in, let them settle inside him. It was true, after all. He had always looked after Aziraphale, since well before the Bastille. It shouldn’t shock him to hear Aziraphale say it. It wasn’t as if it was going to change. He licked a line up Aziraphale’s stiffening cock, and heard his angel’s answering gasp. 

Crowley got him wet all over, drawing his tongue around the head, probing under the foreskin, sliding down the shaft around and around, before finally taking him into his mouth. Aziraphale’s little murmurs and moans gave way to his usual recitations as Crowley began to suck. But he was ready, even eager, to hear them. 

“Oh, you wonderful creature. So generous. You are so good, Crowley. Oh, oh, so good.” 

Crowley’s prick throbbed as always under this onslaught, but for once his brain didn’t want to turn away. Yes, he thought, pressing his tongue to the underside of Aziraphale’s cock as he moved his head back and forth, feeling the weight of him in his mouth, stretching his lips. He swirled his tongue and increased the pressure. Aziraphale tightened his fists in his hair. Yes. Tell me more. 

“You are glorious. You make me feel so good. You spoil me! Oh, you love me so well.” 

I do, Crowley agreed, I love you better than anyone has ever loved in the history of Creation. Damn right. You should be writing hymns in my honor. He opened his throat to take his angel in as far as he would go and thought, sing to me. 

“Oh, _fuck_,” Aziraphale breathed. “Crowley, Crowley, oh, so good, you’re so good, you give me everything --” 

Good point. Crowley slipped two fingers into his arse, crooked them towards his prostate as Aziraphale exclaimed “Yes, yes!” and drove him over the edge, shouting. Crowley swallowed Aziraphale’s prodigious jets of spunk with great satisfaction, kept his fingers working for a few moments through the angel’s aftershocks, and then withdrew, kissing Aziraphale’s cock as it slipped from his lips. 

Aziraphale’s chest was heaving, hands still in Crowley’s hair. He tilted his head down to meet Crowley’s eyes, to deliver his coup de grâce. “My dearest. Thank you.” 

Crowley moaned and closed his eyes against a wave of love and pride. Just months ago, he would have squirmed uncomfortably under such appreciation, however hard it made him. Now, it felt easy, even earned. He slithered up Aziraphale’s body, dragging his leaking cock to rest in the crease of one thigh. He kissed Aziraphale messily, wet and biting in his hunger. Fuck finesse. He was happy. “I want to come inside you,” he said into Aziraphale’s neck, and just saying it made him rut mindlessly into Aziraphale’s groin. 

Aziraphale wrapped his hand around Crowley’s prick, giving it a firm tug, and it was so blindingly good Crowley closed his eyes against the gorgeous sensation and shuddered all over. “Anything you want,” Aziraphale said, threading his legs over Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley felt a cool slickness as Aziraphale’s hand glided over his prick; Aziraphale must have miracled it. He was reaching down, but then Aziraphale was guiding Crowley’s prick, pressing himself against him, opening with a moan and a gentle slide. Crowley felt his balls gathering up already at the sweet friction. 

“Always surprising me, angel,” he said, voice breaking, as he began to move. 

“You can go hard, if you like,” Aziraphale said, stroking his arm. 

“Don’t wanna,” Crowley said, reaching for his hand and clasping it. His thrusts were slow and tender, but deep. He wanted, as always, as much of Aziraphale as he could get. He looked into those stormy eyes. There were tears there. 

“Oh, Crowley.” 

“All right, angel?” Crowley stopped moving. Aziraphale hardly ever cried. 

“I just --” Aziraphale swallowed. His voice was high, strangled. “I love you _so much_.” 

Crowley felt his own eyes prickle. Let them. Bent his head, brought their clasped hands to his lips. He kissed Aziraphale’s hand. Smiled. “Quite right, too.” 

Aziraphale barked a surprised laugh. Crowley squeezed his hand and resumed his thrusts, a little more powerfully now. His heart was overflowing with joy, desire fast on its heels. Aziraphale’s chuckle turned to gasps of pleasure, his tireless cock filling again. Crowley stroked it lightly, felt it grow under his fingers. He watched Aziraphale’s face, observed the unfolding of pleasure there as he had studied it for millennia over thousands of meals, rare volumes, concerts, plays, and now this -- everything that made the world worth saving. Okay, this especially. 

Crowley’s prick flamed in the tight heat of Aziraphale’s body. He held Aziraphale’s gaze, held his hand, held his cock in a firmer grip, watched the flush creep over his face. Crowley was moving just a little faster now, the want driving him on, but the tenderness he felt kept him restrained somehow. He wanted this sweet. He went on holding Aziraphale’s hand, feeling him return the pressure. 

“So good, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. He was pressing against Crowley, tense legs pushing at Crowley’s shoulders, hips bearing down. Aziraphale’s desire was a beacon, lighting his way. He pulled Aziraphale’s hips tighter toward him, as deep as he could go, and the intensity cracked him open. He came in slow, huge rolling waves like the crash of the ocean, overwhelming. Aziraphale followed him over, crying out. 

Crowley shuddered for what felt like hours, pouring himself into Aziraphale long after the angel had quieted. Aziraphale kept a hard grip on his hand, kept his hips moving gently, drawing the sweetness out and out and out. How was it so good, every time? Always different, always perfect. The miracle of Aziraphale, loving him. 

Finally, he collapsed, gasping, and Aziraphale lowered his legs to wrap around Crowley’s waist, pulling him into a slow, wet kiss while he lay still nestled in Aziraphale’s body. 

“Love you, too,” Crowley said against his mouth. 

Something had changed. Six months ago, he would have said the only change that mattered was that Aziraphale had finally realized he loved Crowley, had always loved Crowley, and had done something about it. Nothing else in the world needed to change after that. 

But if millennia in the world had taught him anything, it was that life wasn’t static. The Earth was a place of growth, transition, sometimes chaos; Aziraphale had been his only constant for thousands of years. And even Aziraphale could change. 

Aziraphale was beginning to trust Crowley now with new, hidden parts of himself, relinquishing control, revealing things he wasn’t sure how to handle. Letting Crowley take care of him in new ways. Crowley was staggered by the raw vulnerability Aziraphale was offering him. 

And for the first time since he’d Fallen, Crowley thought he might be good enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Juliet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliet/pseuds/juliet) deserves so much love and gratitude. Not only did they provide cheerleading and exquisitely detailed beta above and beyond my wildest expectations, but they actually acted as an unpaid research assistant! Thanks to them, I know that hogs were roaming freely in the streets around the Globe in Shakespeare’s time, and that Aziraphale’s unbelievably sexy shoes in the Bastille scene could have been called pumps. I am all delight. [Go read Juliet’s stories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliet/pseuds/juliet/works?fandom_id=27251507), they are brilliant.
> 
> Shout out to [hollybennett123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollybennett123/pseuds/hollybennett123), who particularly wanted the post-Bastille scene and provided me with a great deal of encouragement on the subject.


End file.
